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Even the ageless get old

#76
His head was swimming. Moats of black swirled at the edge of his vision. He was assaulted by the sound of gunfire. The pounding of blood in his ears. The smell of smoke, blood, burned dirt and flesh.

The pain was nothing. He and pain were not old friends. They were rivals, locked in bitter hatred. The pain was there, just as it always was, but it occupied it's usual dark, cobwebed corner in the back of his mind. He used to hate pain. He still did, but at this point he couldn't care about it anymore. His huge body was a tapestry of pain, a histroy told in scars and written in rivers of blood.

That same blood that now leaked from his many wounds and missing leg.

When the woman came up with a new rifle, his mind didn't register it. He was still thinking. Pontificating even. All the histories and lifetimes he had lived, would still live. None of them knew. None of them understood. They fought for any number of reasons, the stupidest of them being either power, or immortality. Well, he had both of those things. The power came and went. It was a novelty. The immortality however, was a curse. The constant pain, the lonelyness. The jaded cynicism. The fatalistic inability to care, or worry. And the fighting. The constant, brutal, unrelenting violence. His was a world of brutality and hate. And in it, he who wore the iron crown was doomed to suffer worst of all.

His body moved in it's own. Even crippled and broken, the instinct to survive, to damage, to cause pain to the enemy were so embeded in his essence that he had no choice. He was certain that even if his brain died, what synapses his body had left would be attacks. He shoved himself back, sliding on the dirt and grass as she fired. The big antimatter rounds blew craters and scattered turf in bursts. He felt the sting as one landed close, nearly taking his hand off. Just the force from the shot alone broke two fingers. He slid over the edge of a rise and fell into a depression. The landing was heavy and unpleasant. He coughed, blood staining his teeth. He hung his head, sweat dripping off his face and hair, bloody drool dangling from his mouth and nose.

What had he told the last one?

"If someone is trying to kill you, make it such a horrific ordeal that even after you breath your last, the memory will haunt their dreams the rest of their days."

Pretty words. Tought talk from a bitter, angry old man. But true to himself. If he was going to die, or be beaten, then it made sense to make it as hard as possible to do so.

When he rose, balacing on his severed knee, his eyes had changed. They were no longer icey blue. They were now as grey and cold as tempered steel.

His expression was blank, lifeless, and devoid of any humanity. He fired the round he had reloaded after falling from the edge, aiming for her position. Once they were fired, he scrambled back up the rise, using his arms and intact leg to frog leap across the distance, heading for the treeline.
 

2Bornot2B

is the important Question
#77
His head was swimming. Moats of black swirled at the edge of his vision. He was assaulted by the sound of gunfire. The pounding of blood in his ears. The smell of smoke, blood, burned dirt and flesh.

The pain was nothing. He and pain were not old friends. They were rivals, locked in bitter hatred. The pain was there, just as it always was, but it occupied it's usual dark, cobwebed corner in the back of his mind. He used to hate pain. He still did, but at this point he couldn't care about it anymore. His huge body was a tapestry of pain, a histroy told in scars and written in rivers of blood.

That same blood that now leaked from his many wounds and missing leg.

When the woman came up with a new rifle, his mind didn't register it. He was still thinking. Pontificating even. All the histories and lifetimes he had lived, would still live. None of them knew. None of them understood. They fought for any number of reasons, the stupidest of them being either power, or immortality. Well, he had both of those things. The power came and went. It was a novelty. The immortality however, was a curse. The constant pain, the lonelyness. The jaded cynicism. The fatalistic inability to care, or worry. And the fighting. The constant, brutal, unrelenting violence. His was a world of brutality and hate. And in it, he who wore the iron crown was doomed to suffer worst of all.

His body moved in it's own. Even crippled and broken, the instinct to survive, to damage, to cause pain to the enemy were so embeded in his essence that he had no choice. He was certain that even if his brain died, what synapses his body had left would be attacks. He shoved himself back, sliding on the dirt and grass as she fired. The big antimatter rounds blew craters and scattered turf in bursts. He felt the sting as one landed close, nearly taking his hand off. Just the force from the shot alone broke two fingers. He slid over the edge of a rise and fell into a depression. The landing was heavy and unpleasant. He coughed, blood staining his teeth. He hung his head, sweat dripping off his face and hair, bloody drool dangling from his mouth and nose.

What had he told the last one?

"If someone is trying to kill you, make it such a horrific ordeal that even after you breath your last, the memory will haunt their dreams the rest of their days."

Pretty words. Tought talk from a bitter, angry old man. But true to himself. If he was going to die, or be beaten, then it made sense to make it as hard as possible to do so.

When he rose, balacing on his severed knee, his eyes had changed. They were no longer icey blue. They were now as grey and cold as tempered steel.

His expression was blank, lifeless, and devoid of any humanity. He fired the round he had reloaded after falling from the edge, aiming for her position. Once they were fired, he scrambled back up the rise, using his arms and intact leg to frog leap across the distance, heading for the treeline.
The round struck a smoke grenade on her belt and she was engulfed in it leaving the old man time to escape. The smoke finally clears and she stands up signalling "come at me with her hand with the rifle in her other hand before she dashes onto the side of the cliff
 
#78
He opened his eyes to find himself hidden in the thicket. His eyes were their normal icy blue once more. He groaned, sitting up and rubbing his forehead. The shade was cool as the canopy of leaves shielded out the harsh sunlight. He felt the sweat and blood trickling off of him still, but saw that the bleeding from the stump had stopped mostly.

He couldn't remember how he had gotten away, the bitch had him dead to rights. But it wasn't the time for worring about that. He felt his gun in his right hand, it's weight reassuring. But he also felt something in his left hand. For some reason the shattered barrel of his punt gun was in his hand. He decided not to question providence once again, and made his way to the crate with his supplies in it. He had some medical supplies, and once his leg was serilized and wrapped in cause that started to turn red, he fished out all the shoulder straps from his guns and bags. He used a rock to grind away the jagged edges on the broken end of the barrel, then used the srapps and some ducktape from his survival supplies to fashion a makeshift rig that would cinch around his thigh and hip. After whittiling down a lump of wood and shoving it into the opposite end of the barrel to keep it from sinking in, he now had a resonably sturdy steel peg leg. He tested it and found it held his weight easily.

That taken care off, he holstered his pistol and looked toward the open fields and cliffs where his opponant hid. He suddenly realized that in his annoyed state from the last fight, he had gone about this whole thing wrong from the beginning. He had tried to beat her at he own game, and while he was sure he could, he had gone into it half cocked and it had cost him. Pain wracked his body and he felt the fatigue setting in. He needed to try something different.

He turned back to the crate and fished out his survival supplies. He dug in and found some paracord, 80lbs fishing line, and other assorted things any good eagle scout would have in their travel pack. He studdied the weapons he had left in the crate. Mostly pistols, rifles and shotguns of offensively large calibers and their complementary ammunition. He spotted the huge shells for the punt gun and had an epiphany.

After a long while of hiding in the woods, his shilouet appeared just at the tree line. He stood and scanned for his enemy, holding his gun in a steady fist by his side.
 

2Bornot2B

is the important Question
#79
She scrambles up a tree looking around for that old man finally, she saw him and dashes a to his left and readies a volley of shots. She smirked "checkmate" and fires three rounds in his general direction and flanks right firing one more before reloading her magazine.
 
#80
He heard the crack and rustle of leaves and twigs. The tree trunk near him exploded into shards and splinters. He fell back as more shots slammed into the forest around him. Luckly he had positioned himself near a thick group of older trees that shielded him from the shots. He raised his gun and fired at her, but instead if sticking around to see if he hit her or not, he dissapeared into the thick brush.
 

2Bornot2B

is the important Question
#81
she couldn't see the old man "damn I lost him" she dashed back up to the highest point on the cliff and scanned frantically for him
 
#82
Elen appeared again, stepping only half way out from behind a tree. The girl seemed desperate. He watched the barrel of her rifle sweep frantically back and forth, searching for him.

"Good," he thought, "Maybe she's loosing her focus."

He looked down at his steel peg-leg. Thankfully the metal was dull, and would not catch the sun and shine brightly, giving him away. He never could understand why some shooters polished their weapons. a good shooter always tinted their scope lenses, and painted or dulled the frame and barrel of their weapon. A chrome plated, gold accented gun might look snazzy, but it would't matter how good it looked when you're dead.

He looked back up to where he had seen her crouched. She might be getting nervous but he was getting impatient. he mentally reined himself in. If anyone was going to crack in this waiting game, it would not be him again. He raised his pistol and blasted two shots at her position. he wasn't concerned with scoring a hit. he just wanted to make sure she knew he could still harass her without presenting a target. After firing, he vanished again into the woods, like a giant ghost.
 
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2Bornot2B

is the important Question
#83
The bullet barely missed her again. "shit this is not good" She frantically searches for that old man "hopefully at this rate he will run out of ammo" She dashes to the next highpoint "I better find him and if it comes to it ill try and end things up close and personal" she puts a long knife on her belt.
 
#84
He appeared again. This time he did not have his pistol aimed at her. Instead, he held a large Marlin lever action rifle. The rifle fired powerful 45-70 rounds and was solidly accurate from as far as 500 yards away. He racked a round using the lever, braced the gun on his shoulder, and sighted through the Rainier view finder. Squeezing the trigger slowly, the gun went of with the heavy crack of the round's hot powder charge. After firing, he slunk back into the trees, the foliage seeming to fold itself around and envelop him.
 

2Bornot2B

is the important Question
#85
She begins to progress towards the direction of the gunshots "his aim is getting worse..old fool" she dashes in the direction of gunshots with her rifle on her back and a long knife in her hand
 
#86
He gripped the heavy gun in his hands as he watched her approach. He aimed and fired, telegraphing his position in the thicket. But as soon as she got close, he disappeared again, letring himself be swallwed by the dense brush and undergrowth. It was uncanny that someone as big and heavy as he was could move so easily through the thick undergrowth, but that's just what he did. The only hitch in his tactic was the steel gun barrel serving as his peg leg. It left an obvious indentation in the ground that was impossible to avoid and difficult to hide. This caused him to habe to plan ahead for his escapes, hoping the tracks wouldn't give him away too easily. The tracks led deep into the brush, though he stepped on roots or rocks when he could.
 

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